Refraction
by Yorik
Summary: In which Shinomori Aoshi discovers that the Devil is precise; and the marks of his presence are definite as stone. Eventual AxK
1. Prologue

**Refraction  
**..

Prologue

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..

The sunset was breathtaking. The sun hung suspended in the air like a mystical blood-red orb for longer than usual and stretched its' final dying beams of light over the docks as God may stretch his fingers.

"_Red sky at night, shepherds' delight;  
Red sky in the morning, shepherds' warning."_

Ichigo Somotura paused to appreciate the beauty of the end of the day, as was his custom, and opened his can of beer. He was aware that drinking was not permitted by employees regardless of work hours, because the docks were a dangerous place to be whether you were drunk or not, what with all that heavy equipment. Accidents there were both alarmingly frequent and gruesome. But he consoled his guilty conscience (bubbling up again! As if he didn't go through this moral dilemma every day) by telling himself that there was no one around to catch him in the act. Besides, he reasoned, the sun was fast-setting. It would be dark before he realized it. And if he didn't enjoy this moment, who was to say it wouldn't be his last?

The air was warm despite the time. The gentle sea breeze caressed his face and toyed with his hair. This was the life. He inhaled deeply and couldn't help but smile. This was the only half hour or so of the day that belonged to him. He knew that the moment he reached home he'd have to face reality; that there were bills to be paid, mouths to feed, money to be made. Yui needed another school uniform. Aya needed to buy the groceries. And the baby needed something to eat besides leftover gruel. But here, at the docks, at sunset, he was at peace. This was life as God intended it. Ichigo could only be grateful for this small miracle, and pray that somewhere, someone else was taking in this breathtaking sight and being enveloped by calm. He inhaled the tangy air again.

And then he noticed something peculiar.

"Urgh!" exclaimed Ichigo, throwing his hands over his nose. "What's that _smell?!_"

Rising to his feet, he followed his nose and made his way over to warehouse seven, closest to him. The sun had mostly sunk into the sea so light was minimal; shadows were longer and more eerie.

And the air was foul.

As he wandered deeper into the building, night began to settle. Stacks of crates and steel containers loomed imposingly like giants over him, making him feel that much more afraid, that much more insignificant. It was now too dark for him to see. But that odor was still painfully obvious. In fact, it was stronger than before. He felt stupid for not thinking to put the lights on before delving this far in; but then realized that workers were not permitted inside the warehouses after hours. And the last thing he needed was to get fired. Especially with Aya's birthday coming up.

Deciding that his present escapade was proving to be both fruitless and stupid, Ichigo turned sharply in order to make his way back to the docks but collided into a stack of wooden crates instead. Then, as if in slow motion, the topmost became dislodged and crashed around his feet.

"Shit!"

He had to get out of there. Fast. Before security turned up.

Ichigo tried to move forward but stumbled over something in his path. He cursed. Something was also dripping onto his face and he was afraid that it might be some valuable compound leaking from the crates. Reaching to touch his cheek, he smeared most of it away. He could barely make out how to escape with all that debris on the floor, so he fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette lighter. Some light was better than none, after all.

As the flame flickered to life and his panic began to subside, he realized something.

The compound dripping onto him was thick, gooey and black-red.

And that thing he had stumbled over in the dark had been a severed head.

Ichigo screamed.

Outside, it was a beautiful night.


	2. Chapter One

**Refraction  
**..

Chapter One

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..

Shinomori Aoshi stalked into the station, tie undone and coat hanging off his arm. His hair was disarrayed and still damp from his hurried morning shower, and the lingering scent of toothpaste and aftershave hovered around him like mist. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and specks of dried blood on his face, as if he had cut himself by shaving carelessly. This struck most of the juniors are strange, for in all the while they had known him Aoshi had been the epitome of perfection. A murmur rippled around the room, _'maybe he's human after all'_ and rolled throughout the station like a small wave.

"Damn them," thought Aoshi moodily. He was entitled to be disheveled. After all, today was Sunday; a sacred, holy day reserved for peace, quiet and all things non-work related. But then at five thirty that morning his slumber was rudely interrupted by a phone call from the Commissioner himself (halfway through a wonderfully bizarre dream in which he and Julie Andrews were running up and down the Alps singing and gunning down Nazis) who demanded that they meet as soon as possible.

He came to a halt in front of the Commissioner's office and knocked sharply.

"Come in!"

Aoshi braced himself but was still unprepared for the stuffy, hazy atmosphere of the Commissioner's office. Indeed, the smoke was so concentrated that fighting the resulting urge to cough made his eyes water. He could not understand why the Commissioner never opened his windows. Surely that would do a world of good? Surely he'd be less likely to die of lung cancer? _'But then again,_' he reasoned, _'he lives off these fumes'_. Not to mention it was probably one of his attempts to intimidate people. And everyone knew how happy he was when he was being intimidating.

Praying he wouldn't trip over anything, Aoshi instinctively navigated himself through the smog, stood before the Commissioner's desk, and waited.

"Shinomori," he said, emerging from the shadows, his hoarse voice hushed. The smoke blurred his features, but even then Aoshi could still make out his piercing golden eyes. His mouth was unsmiling and thin, his skin pallid, his features sharp. He had a chilling demeanor that struck fear into the hearts of almost everyone he met, and was proud of it. Indeed, Commissioner Saitou Hajime was a force to be reckoned with.

"Sir?"

Saitou motioned for him to sit down with a wave of his hand before lighting another cigarette. Under the milky glow of the fluorescent table lamp, currently the only source of light in the room, Aoshi could see tired lines on the Commissioner's face, unshaven and worn. It appeared that he'd had less sleep than Aoshi. Perhaps no sleep at all.

Saitou stood suddenly and stretched his weary neck muscles. Then, whilst moving towards the window, he tossed a large brown cardboard file at Aoshi.

"Look at those," he said.

And for a moment, Aoshi's heart stopped.

His eyes widened in horror and a wave of nausea washed over him. This was sick. This was unnatural. _'This sort of thing…shouldn't be happening in real life.'_

They were photographs.

Photographs of mutilated corpses.

Cold dread settled in the pit of Aoshi's stomach and twined itself around his intestines. The atmosphere in the room tensed.

"Sir! This is-!"

For a long while neither of them spoke.

Aoshi was too transfixed by the horrifying details to think coherently, but forced himself to speak nonetheless.

"Have…Have the bodies been identified?"

His voice was hushed and yet it floated incriminatingly between them as if he'd shouted.

"Only some. The rest are too disfigured to recognize."

More silence. Something akin to foreboding was beginning to percolate through Aoshi's skin.

"When did this happen?" he asked.

"It's been happening for weeks but nobody reported it," growled Saitou angrily, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "Goddamn the imbeciles in this city! They don't even have the presence of mind to file a report when someone goes missing!"

Aoshi shut the file and couldn't help but heave a heavy sigh. He stared at his shoes and didn't dare look up. There were emotions evident on his face that he didn't want the Commissioner to see.

"Is it possible for me to examine the bodies?" he asked, finally.

"Most probably. They're performing the autopsies as we speak."

Saitou stubbed out his cigarette on the window sill before speaking again.

"They were found in some warehouse at the docks. They were shoved into crates and were about to be shipped off  
to God-knows where. Fortunately, some fool decided to be nosy and see what was in them."

"Fortunately…" murmured Aoshi, absorbing the irony of the statement.

"If I were you I'd make contact with the team from the forensics department. I think Takani's is the one assigned to this case."

"Yes, Sir,"

Aoshi rose to his feet, clutching the file tightly. His knuckles were white.

"Shinomori," said the Commissioner.

Aoshi looked up. The sun was just beginning to rise. Golden light penetrating the slits between the blinds on the windows cast eerie shadows around the room like the bars of a cage. Aoshi could not suppress the feeling that he was trapped. When his gaze came to rest upon the Commissioner, half shrouded in darkness, he shivered involuntarily. The tendrils of smoke wafting from the Commissioner's newly-lit cigarette, coiling in to each other like snakes performing an elaborate dance, and the fiercely calm expression on his face, were defined by warm sunbeams. Aoshi could only wonder what he was thinking about. The Commissioner was unreadable, as usual.

"Sir?"

The Commissioner's voice was so soft Aoshi had to strain to hear it.

"Good luck."

…


	3. Interlude I

**Refraction  
**..

Interlude

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..

Flashing lights. Sirens. Police.

None of these things existed. Only the music.

Chopin's Prelude No. 4 in E minor, in fact. And what a beautiful song it was. It practically drowned the listener in a slow moving ocean of emotion. Loneliness. Such loneliness.

Such beautiful loneliness.

Like cautious steps tread across an all-too familiar path. Like rain falling from a glowing, gloomy, slate-gray sky. Like tears and sadness. Like a lifetime of waiting. And losing. And wishing and wanting.

_This_ was music.

What a fitting tribute. What a fitting farewell.

Ave to those poor, unfortunate girls.

Ave to himself.

And Ave to…

_No_. Not yet.

The room was cold and draughty. And empty save for that piano. Tattered curtains drifted inwards like ghosts, allowing a sliver of moonlight to puddle across the floor and his hands, wandering over the keys. They danced together as wanderers might along that moon-lit boulevard, depressed by gentle fingers as if in gentle caress.

Gently, gently now. Rise and fall with the music. Rise and fall, emotion.

_Rise and fall. Rise and…  
Fall  
And rise  
And fall and rise and…_

…Drift.

Drift in and out of consciousness. In and out of reality. Drift with the music on a sea of loneliness.

He was a castaway drifting through life. Through time. Through eternity.

He raised his eyes towards the star-strewn sky, scattered like milky-white pebbles on a blue-black velvet cape. It was almost time.  
Almost time for…

He stood and lingered above the three-tiered candelabra. The candlelight captured the crimson highlights in his Romanée Conti and the slender neck of his wine glass. He extinguished the first two candles and tried to catch the intricate trails the coiling smoke wove in the palm of his hand. Turning his eyes to the final source of light, he paused to appreciate the beauty of naked fire. If he kissed it, his lips would burn.

If he kissed it, he would…

His mouth hovered over the flame for a moment. Then it flickered under his breath, and went out.


End file.
